


accessibility

by days4daisy



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: The name of ‘Security’ is Ashley Stubbs, which is a ridiculous name for a guy as stacked as he is.
Relationships: Ashley Stubbs/Logan Delos
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	accessibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



> It was so lovely to write for you, spock! I love your enthusiasm for Logan - he's one of my show favorites too. I hope you enjoy the pair <3

For Logan Delos, it’s a brand new world. What he thought he knew five minutes ago takes a tumble off the edge of reality and lands in a mind-blown waste heap.

There should be no way. Forget the level of ambition and scope it would take to put together an operation like this. The technology doesn’t even exist yet! It can’t exist! If it _does_ exist, how did Logan not know about it? His dad is the one stuck in the past while the world of today passes him by. It’s why Logan is in charge of pursuits now, why Logan gets to evaluate the latest and greatest in AR and VR.

Daddy dearest can bitch all he wants about Logan’s...extracurriculars. No one is more looped in on the market than Logan. He gets scoops on the competition because of who he knows and where he plays. Logan gladhands with the best of them, and he’s seen the most innovative shit the world has to pitch because of it.

They aren’t _here_ yet, but Logan is standing in the middle of it all the same. The future collides with the present. Artificial Intelligence of a scope Logan has only seen in movies.

Logan is angry, he should have known about this! But he’s excited too, way beyond kid-in-candy-store levels. He’s dizzy with possibility - the marketing, the branding, the stories, the data. The future is right at his fingertips, _Delos’_ fingertips! They’ll be at the cutting edge of everything!

Around him, a party of fakes resumes their performance. Laughing. Chatting. The gentle tap of piano keys. It’s another night in the life for them, only there is no ‘life’ here except for Logan and his presenter Akecheta. Only, no. He froze too, didn’t he? Even Akecheta, the host of the event, is “host” in name only.

Logan’s eyes don’t have the bandwidth for his surroundings. The body language. The facial expressions. The eyes, even. Like they can actually see, process, turn external stimuli into coherent thought. It’s incredible, too good to be true. His mouth still feels warm from the press of Angela’s lips. Her skin felt like any woman’s, it gave when he squeezed her shoulder, she sighed into his mouth.

They’re all so real, and Logan wants them. He feels hungry in a way he can’t remember before, eyes as wide as his appetite. Logan is a man of many tastes, and this new reality presents every flavor imaginable. Every person in this room - male, female, young, old. Every single one is not a person at all. But they’ll feel like people. They’ll sigh and moan and fuck like people. And the way Logan hungers for them? The world will too. The most elite consumers. Famous, rich, all ready to buy into a lust that lives at the very core of life itself.

In a corner of the room stands a man in a black suit. He watches alone, expression unreadable.

The guy isn’t the type to catch Logan’s eye. Logan goes for flashier types. Soft skin and glossy hair. But he catches Logan’s attention because he’s the only person - thing? - that has the nerve to look bored in the middle of this visual feast. Logan gives Akecheta a nudge and motions towards the back of the room. “How about him?” he asks. “He one of them...you...too?”

Akecheta follows his gaze. “Him? Oh no, no. We have security on hand for any of our private demos. No incidents, you understand. It’s protocol.”

“Security, huh?” Logan gives the guy another look while he drains his champagne. Security. For the biggest goldmine in the world. Must have one hell of a resume.

***

The name of ‘Security’ is Ashley Stubbs, which is a ridiculous name for a guy as stacked as he is.

The next time Logan sees him, it’s in a drab gray office under the fledgling pilot park Ford is calling Westworld. Kind of cheesy in Logan’s opinion, but it does have a nice ring to it. ‘The Wild West’ would be a boring cliche. And ‘Westworld’ captures the immersive experience. Guests aren’t playing a game, they’re setting feet down in another life.

It’s easy enough to suggest to Ford that he should get a one-on-one with the head of security. Logan is a concerned buyer looking to protect his family’s investment, after all. Security must be the least of Ford’s concerns, because Logan has a meeting set with Stubbs within two days.

Stubbs trades in his all black suit for an all black security uniform, which says a lot about the guy’s range of taste. The uniform looks a hell of a lot better on his figure. The suit ballooned out in all the wrong places, made him look pudgy when in actuality the guy is built like a brick wall. Whoever designed the uniforms must share Logan’s kink for arms; Stubbs’ sleeves are all bicep.

Stubbs hands over a tablet with a full written presentation, which is adorable. He also pulls up a holo screen with a summation of his data - equally adorable. Stubbs’ voice is higher than Logan would have expected, but he speaks in a no-frills way that suits him. It takes about one minute for Logan to decide that he likes listening to Stubbs talk. That is, he likes listening to Stubbs’ voice, he doesn’t give a shit about what Stubbs is saying.

Stubbs must be used to getting ignored, because he clips himself off with a sigh. “The data pad has a summary of the rest,” Stubbs says. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Delos. Ford is waiting for you in his office if you want to-”

“A summary, right.” Logan gives the tablet a shake to show how seriously he takes its contents. “But I asked for this meeting because security is very important to me. We’re not only putting Delos’ money behind Argos' idea, remarkable as it is. We’re putting that money behind an experience. Our family has as much to lose as anyone if this goes south, and I hear it’s up to you to make sure things go off without a hitch. Tell me, what are you personally doing to ensure the park opens to the public without incident?”

It’s a pleasant surprise when Stubbs looks annoyed by the challenge. He wrinkles his nose in the cutest display of distaste and sniffs, as if the attitude Logan is giving him has a smell. “I’ll tell you exactly what I’m doing,” Stubbs says. His voice takes on a new edge. Logan is an immediate fan.

What follows is an impressive spiel of techno-babble. Hidden switches, emergency shutdowns, freezing a host’s motor functions with voice commands. Logan does not care about any of it, but he was clearly selling Stubbs short. The guy projects ‘meathead’ vibes, but he’s passionate about what he does. Logan isn’t in the coding weeds, but he knows he’s listening to someone who can walk the talk.

“This is great,” Logan enthuses when it’s all said and done. He has no idea how long he’s been sitting in this room, legs propped on a table, listening to Stubbs talk. Standing, Logan offers Stubbs his hand. “Exactly the type of explanation I was after. Stubbs, thank you. I can tell you know your stuff.”

Stubbs gives Logan’s hand a suspicious look but takes it. “You...don’t have any questions?” he asks. “I went through that pretty fast.”

“Fast but clear, just my speed.” Logan gives him a grin. “I bet I will have questions though once I get through this tablet and, you know, process everything. Loads of questions.”

“Right.” Stubbs looks at Logan a bit mystified. Curiosity makes his bottom lip pop out, and isn't that isn’t the most tempting thing in the world? “Well, I’m here round the clock. You can always email me or give me a call.”

“That's great.” Logan nods. “But I was thinking of something a little more personal. Like this. You seeing me, me seeing you. There’s accountability in face to face tag ups. I like that. I work better in person.”

“Oh. Sure, I guess.” Stubbs shrugs. “I mean, you’re the one with the crazy calendar. You let me know whenever you want to meet. I’ll make it work.”

Logan claps Stubbs on the shoulder encouragingly. Christ, he has a body like rock. New, happy images fill Logan’s brain of unzipping Stubbs’ uniform and having a go at his gym rat physique. “Flexibility. I love it. Might be after hours if that’s alright. Like you said, I’m a busy guy. But at night I can give you my full attention.” Seed dropped.

Logan is happy when he doesn’t get a knowing look from Stubbs. He likes when they play hard to get at first. “That’s fine. I work round the clock, like I said,” Stubbs tells him. “Just let me know.”

“Round the clock, huh? Ford must keep you on a tight leash.” Logan is the one who gives Stubbs a knowing look.

Stubbs rolls his eyes. He has an uncanny way of making annoyed look good. “Something like that,” he says. “I’ll message your assistant and get on your calendar then.”

“Beautiful.” Logan can’t resist giving that Adonis shoulder a squeeze. Jesus, he’s thick. “Look forward to partnering with you, Stubbs. We’ve got a good thing going here.”

“Oh yeah,” Stubbs mutters while Logan lets himself out. “A real good thing.”

***

Logan intends to follow up on the planted seed, he really does. Stubbs isn't Logan's type, but he's hot enough and has bite to go with his bark. Logan has pursued one nighters for a hell of a lot less.

But distraction comes easy in this new world of Logan's. It's hard to remember to water one seed when Ford opens the door to the whole damn garden. Logan can have anyone he wants in Westworld. He can woo, he can kiss, he can fuck, he can kill. And there’s no consequence to any of it. No real life repercussions. No strings attached.

Boys weekend in Westworld with William seems like a good idea. Juliet wants Logan to try to get along with the guy. William is a wet blanket, but who knows? Maybe a tour through Westworld is the thing that will toughen him up. And if not, whatever. Juliet marries the chump and Logan carries the Delos name to a bright and profitable future.

What's the worst that could happen?

***

It’s so hot.

How can skin burn that’s already burned? It’s like the sun has grown tired of Logan's outer layer and wants to claw down to his bones.

How is Logan burning? Ford said everything was safe. They couldn’t get hurt in Westworld. It’s what Stubbs said too, isn’t it? The myriad of exits. The security monitoring. Cameras staged across the length of the park. Drone deployments at the ready. Lifts entering the park in different strategic zones. Security on fucking all-terrain four-wheelers. Goddamn it, they said this was safe!

Now, Logan is burning. And it’s all burning with him. His family. His reputation. Fucking civilization. Burning, and it won’t stop. It hurts. He hurts. And no one’s coming for him. The only one who stopped is the seller Akecheta. The host who sold Logan his dreams, who Ford gave the keys to the funhouse. Akecheta covered his shoulders, and the fabric felt cool on his skin.

He said something. Logan didn’t understand him, but he said something. And then he left. Came and went. Sold a dream and disappeared. Fucking Ford and his goddamn sense of humor.

It’s not real. None of this is real. Not the sand under his bare ass. Not the dead horse glaring at him. Not the sky. Not the sun, even though it’s burning him, it’s _burning_ , and it _won’t stop._ Logan needs to get out of here. Someone needs to get him. Someone, anyone. It’s not real.

But if it’s not real, why does it hurt?

“Jesus.” The sun gets blotted out by a mountain of a guy. Same black uniform. Same biceps.

“Where were you?” Logan hisses. He’s too parched, too sun-drained, to muster more of his voice. “Do you not- can’t you fucking- it’s not- it’s not fucking _real_ , why didn’t you fucking stop it?”

Stubbs, by his standards, is patient. He purses his lips together in a tight line and kneels. “Your addendum. I couldn’t.”

“What?”

“Your addendum. No interference until the set number of hours elapsed with no story progression.” Stubbs frowns as he speaks, like he feels bad about it. Which he should. Stubbs stops moving, blue eyes on Logan’s. “It wasn’t my call,” he says, louder. “Your addendum went straight to Ford. It’s above my access.”

“You’re fucking head of security! If you’re real. If any of us are real. This place. _God_.”

With pursed lips, Stubbs sighs and unfurls the cover around Logan’s shoulders. He drapes it over Logan like a blanket. Logan doesn’t get to ask why before he’s off the ground. Scooped up like he’s nothing. Stubbs isn’t the tallest guy, but he’s thick enough to make it seem easy. He gets Logan up without so much as a grunt. His uniform is blissfully cool. The change in altitude makes Logan dizzy. He closes his eyes to keep the nausea at bay, though he can’t imagine what he would throw up. When did he last eat?

“I don’t think God is real.”

Logan lolls his headache-ridden skull against Stubbs’ shoulder. It takes every muscle he can remember how to move to make eye contact. Stubbs has the most ridiculous blue eyes. They’re even bluer than the fake sky. “What?” Logan rasps.

“You said you didn’t know if any of it was real. This place. Me. God. I’ve thought about God for a while. Guess it’s hard to say for sure, but I’ve got doubts.”

Logan barks out a cough-like laugh. “Fuck no. God’s a myth. All we've got is the Devil. And you, fuck - you all gave him the garden on a silver platter.”

He doesn't notice Stubbs moving. Stubbs feels so cool, and the breeze is nice. The fake breeze in this fake world.

“It’s so hot,” Logan moans, but he’s shivering. “It’s burning. Everything’s burning.”

“You’re safe now, Mr. Delos.” Stubbs has a calming voice. “I’ll get you home.”

If Logan had the energy, he would laugh long and hard. Home. Right. A world as false as this one.

***

Time passes. How much time, who can say? Time is a construct. One more thing people built to try to make sense of things. They built time, and they built the hosts. It's all bullshit.

The drugs help sometimes. Or they hurt. Or they help by hurting. Logan doesn’t even feel the injections anymore. The crook of his elbow is a minefield of needle pocks. He managed to put on something presentable tonight like dear old dad wanted him to. But he won’t be up there with the circus, oh no. Sipping champagne in that big house while idiots toast their own self-inflicted apocalypse.

They send the pretty girl down for him. Dolores. William and his fucking sense of humor. Who could have imagined he would turn out to be so funny? Fuck him. Fuck Ford. Fuck Dad.

“Mr. Delos. It’s been awhile.”

“Fuck you too,” Logan mumbles. But he can’t muster any heat, not with the drugs swimming laps through his veins. He tips his heavy head back on the lounger and rolls his eyes up the long way. “Black suit,” he notes, cracking a smile. “Same one you had on at the demo. Guess William’s not the only one with a sense of humor around here.”

Stubbs sighs. He seems to do this a lot - sigh, huff, or look otherwise putout. Life and its many twists and turns seem to be quite the nuisance for Ashley Stubbs. He’s a guy who rolls out of bed wondering how the world is going to fuck with him today.

On one hand, Logan can appreciate this mindset. On the other, Stubbs is head of security for the downfall of civilization. Life is aggravating? No problem, it’ll all be over soon enough.

“You’re a waste of a better-than-average package,” Logan mumbles. He toasts what’s left of his whiskey at Stubbs. At his stupid boy scout haircut. At what’s probably the only suit he owns. Even now, Logan would fuck him. Or even better, split his legs right here. Let Stubbs ram him within feet of the doomsday parade.

“How long’s it been anyway? Can’t keep track of the days. It’s part of - what did they call it? Oh yeah, my _trauma._ I’m a headcase now, Ford must have told you that. Or my dick dad. Or that son of a bitch who has my job now.”

Another sigh from Stubbs. Logan wonders what it would take to ramp up the guy’s emoting. Maybe he needs his diagnostics retooled. Spike the visual cues, and lower the inhibitions. Ha.

“How’s it feel?” Logan asks. “Security chief of the operation that’s going to end humanity as we know it. Do you even give a shit? Are you even real? Shit, you don’t age.” Logan gulps down the rest of his whiskey. “Bet you’re one of them too,” he chokes, throat on fire. “Hell, maybe we’re all in on it. I got blood on my insides,” he rolls up his sleeve and shows off the needle marks on his arm. Why not, right? “But that’s not proof. You made ‘em with blood. I’d have to go all the way to the core. Get at the wires in my veins, or blast through my skull, how ‘bout that?”

Stubbs' expression doesn’t really change. He has on the same tight-lipped, constipated frown. But something shifts in his eyes. Logan shouldn’t be able to see it in the dark. Everything else is a blur - the world Dolores said was so full of splendor because she wasn’t made to know better. All the lights and life are a smear, but Stubbs is clear as crystal.

“Let me give you a ride home,” Stubbs says.

Logan snorts. “This is home. That’s the kicker, isn’t it? Lose it all, and your last resort is moving in with the assholes who took it from you.”

“Then let me give you a ride someplace else,” Stubbs suggests. “You don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here. My place isn’t far, or...I don’t know. Wherever you want.”

Logan coughs out a harsh laugh. “You after an easy fuck, Stubbs?” He swings his legs off the lounger in either direction and opens them nice and wide. “We don’t have to go anywhere for that."

Logan gets a grunt out of Stubbs and a flash in his eyes that looks a lot like anger. “I want to help, alright?”

“Yeah well, you’re a little goddamn late, aren’t you?” Logan closes his legs back up and glares. He’s angry too. Angrier than he’s let himself get in a long time. Angrier than the drugs should let him be. “I remember you saying you couldn’t get involved. You couldn’t help because it was _above your access_. Wasn’t that you? But now you want in my business?”

Displeasure flutters under Stubbs’ jaw. Logan would suck on the spot until Stubbs’ skin turned rose-red. “You shouldn’t have put in that addendum. I _wanted_ to go in. I _tried_ , but-”

“Wanted, tried, whatever. It’s tired.” Logan settles back on the lounger and closes his eyes. “You know what, Ashley? Next time you want to offer up condolences? Bring something with you. Lilies. I like lilies. And come by yourself so I can kick your ass when no one’s watching. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

He waits through the quiet that follows wondering what he wants more. Stubbs to leave him be? Or things to get heated on the back lawn of the family estate? It’s so quiet, the commotion of the party a dull murmur of background noise.

Stubbs’ dress shoes click slowly away. Logan’s disappointment is immediate and heavy. Turns out, he was definitely pulling for the backyard angry romp.

Behind him, laughter breaks out, accompanied by the clanking of champagne glasses. Logan lifts his own empty glass. “Cheers to the end, morons.” He doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

***

Logan doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in the dark. Time again. Too much of it.

He doesn’t have anything on the walls of his apartment. There was a time - ‘time’ again - when Logan didn’t think he’d live in this shithole long enough to make it worth furnishing. A creaky queen-sized bed with a lumpy mattress. A shit-brown couch with stains on a corner. Coffee table made of plastic. Rolling clothes rack in place of an armoir. The former lead of procurement for Delos doesn’t even have a TV.

Logan told his dad he was going to get straight, and he did. As soon as he got clean, dad said he could come home. So he tried, and what’d he get? ‘It won’t last.’

So, Logan came back to this dumpster. And it didn’t last. When it didn’t, Logan still didn’t buy anything better for this crap apartment. Money is in short supply these days, and he’s grown accustomed to the empty white walls. They look like he feels all the time. He’s less alone with the bare walls around him.

Logan doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here. A few hours? It’s dark, which means the sun went down. All the way down to where Logan is. Low enough to see the bottom.

Logan cried at some point. His cheeks have that pinched uncomfortable feeling when the salt starts to dry. The bottle of whiskey on his coffee table is empty. He doesn’t know when he finished it. Logan should feel more drunk. He is drunk, kind of - ‘drunk’ is relative these days.

Dad gave him five minutes to get off the property before security would kick him out. Five goddamn minutes.

With shaking fingers, Logan peels back the right sleeve of his shirt. In the dark, he can’t see the purple-blue blisters all over the crook of his elbow. It’s nice to not see them. Blindness is ignorance, like the fuckers who let Ford release his monster. Stay in the dark long enough and even the dirtiest asshole looks clean.

Logan tries to tighten the strap around his arm. It doesn’t want to stay in place. Keeps slipping, and it isn’t enough pressure. He needs it tighter, tight enough to hurt. Logan wants it to burn, to eat away at his bones. He wants it to hurt like Westworld’s fake sun. Logan’s been chasing the pain for years, but he can’t find it no matter how hard he tries. No matter how far he falls, the bottom coming up fast, it’s all a blur next to Westworld. Logan can’t even find pain as real as a fake sun.

The strap slips again. Logan screams in frustration and tosses the needle. Fucking stupid. It’s glass, and it breaks. Logan’s floor is wet. There’s glass everywhere, and he can’t fucking see it because it’s so dark in this godawful apartment. His arm is a mess of angry red belt marks, but none of them hurt. They’re lies too, because if the strap was ever pulled as tight as the marks claim it would still be on his arm now. So would the needle. And his heart wouldn’t be racing so fast, in a sprint to the finish line with his thoughts. He wouldn’t be choking for air, and crying - damn it, he’s crying again.

If he called his dad, would he pick up? How about Juliet? Or any of his old friends? Associates? Party acquaintances? Old hookups? A gladhander or two, someone who doesn't know Logan’s deal and thinks he’s still all about daddy’s trust fund?

Logan is hyperventilating. Or maybe he’s sobbing. Or laughing. He has no idea anymore. His phone is a smear of numbers and names he doesn’t give a shit about anymore. They scroll past his eyes, nothing making an impression. None of the splendor the pretty girl talked about.

If only he could see how the hosts see. Maybe it would all make sense. Through his own eyes, it's all empty. That’s all that’s left so close to the bottom. Nothing. There’s fucking nothing, that’s the punchline at the center of the universe.

Logan punches his thumb over a name in his contact list. His phone rings once, twice, three times, four. After the fifth ring, a familiar voice murmurs to him in an infuriating monotone. “You’ve reached Ashley Stubbs. I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number…” Yadda, yadda, it’s like he’s reading off a script. He’s so goddamn boring. Logan can’t stand boring, why is Logan calling him anyway, why-

The beep is low-pitched. Logan breathes into the receiver, listening to the silence on the other end.

His voice comes out shaking. “Hey, uh...Ford must still have you on that leash, huh?”

A laugh that Logan doesn’t feel bubbles out. Or is it a sob? Tears drip off his face and land somewhere with the broken glass on the floor. “You still owe me some lilies. And I owe you a punch in the face. Asshole.” His inhale stutters past open lips. “I don’t know why I’m calling. Don’t call me back. This is stupid. I’m hanging up.”

Logan doesn’t hang up. He listens to the silence, like it’s ancient history when answering machines were still a thing. If you droned on long enough, maybe someone would pick up. Or at least you’d get the satisfaction of the machine running out of tape with a beep.

But that’s not how phones work nowadays. He won’t hear Stubbs’ voice, or his dad’s, or anyone. It’s just Logan. And it’s quiet. A whole lot of nothing.

“I should have gone with you,” Logan mumbles. “Back to your place, or anywhere you wanted. My loss. Anyway. Nice knowing you, I guess.”

He finally makes himself hang-up. He’s shaking all over, and his head is pounding. Logan should get up. Find some aspirin. Clean up his mess. But everything in the apartment feels far away. He’s better off on the couch surrounded by blank walls. Here, Logan is as far down as he can go. The bottom’s coming up fast, but it won’t get him yet. He needs to stay still. Calm down. Breathe.

Logan lies on the couch, head pillowed on folded arms. He punches a thumb against his contact list again. One ring, two, three, four, five...

“You’ve reached Ashley Stubbs. I can’t take your call right now…”

***

The next morning, there’s a knock on Logan’s door.

Logan is awake but immobile, save tip-toeing through the broken glass an hour ago to take a piss. It’s felt like a good use of time to lie on the couch and stare at the wall. Sobriety returns slowly, and with it a dull ache between his temples. Logan doesn’t mind the soreness. It gives him something to feel that isn’t a dizzy lurch or a weight pressing on his chest.

Logan expects the knock to be from someone selling Girl Scout cookies or religion.

Logan blinks when it turns out to be Stubbs on the other side of the door. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans, and Logan wonders whether he’s ever seen Stubbs in clothes that aren’t black. His second thought is that Stubbs is holding a bouquet of lilies.

Logan’s third thought, he voices in abrupt, blurted fashion. “Christ, you really are one of them, aren’t you? You don’t fucking age, man.”

“Jesus,” Stubbs murmurs, not at the accusation of being a host, but from looking at Logan. Always nice to have confirmation when he looks like shit.

Logan pads back on bare feet far enough that Stubbs can get inside and the door can close. Then, Logan takes a swing at Stubbs’ face.

Moments before the fist connects, Logan catches recognition on Stubbs' face. He knows it’s coming, and a guy with Stubbs’ body could totally weave out of the way. Save himself what’s sure to be a nice shiner. But Stubbs stands stiff and takes it.

Punching Stubbs feels like fisting a wall. Logan hisses out a curse and clutches his hand.

Stubbs straightens up quickly. His cheek flushes pink from the blow, and there’s an angry shine to his blue eyes. But he doesn’t make a move to retaliate, only places the bouquet of lilies on Logan’s coffee table. “There,” he says. “Think that makes us even.”

“That’s not your call,” Logan mutters. But, wilted hand cradled against his chest, he doesn’t have the fight in him to muster another punch. Instead, he nods back at the mess of broken glass on the floor. “Watch your step,” he says. “Crazy night last night.” He cracks a smile. “Hell of a party. You missed out.”

Stubbs is looking at him too closely. It’s like he’s got x-ray vision and he’s trying to see down to Logan’s core. To the place Westworld is still burning years later.

“I told you not to call me back,” Logan mumbles.

“I didn’t,” Stubbs says.

Logan huffs. “You’re here though. That’s worse than calling.”

“Guess so,” Stubbs allows. “But when a guy says I owe him and he owes me, that doesn’t leave much room to stay away. I don’t like debts on my ledger.”

“Fuck.” Logan rubs a tired hand over his face. “‘Debts on your ledger.’ Who scripted that for you? Ford?”

A quirk of amusement touches Stubbs’ mouth. “I can write my own stuff,” he says. “Sometimes, anyway.”

He’s such an asshole. Same stupid haircut. That little smirk on his face. One of those lazy t-shirts that clings on every muscle. And those hip-huggers...damn it.

Logan would still fuck him. He was kind of hoping if they saw each other again, the desire would be gone. Logan planted the seed back when their interests aligned and a one nighter seemed like a fun way to pass the time. They went down different roads long ago. But Logan still wants to trace every last curve under that shirt with his tongue. And maybe let Stubbs stick around after they're done.

“Sit down,” Stubbs says out of nowhere.

Logan is on his ass on the couch before he can ask what the hell he’s being ordered around for. Under a minute later, Stubbs has a trash bag and is kneeling on his floor.

It’s the first time Logan gives Stubbs on his knees any particular thought, and it turns out to be a pretty good sight. Especially in the jeans. But the fantasy is a waste with Stubbs picking up the broken glass on Logan’s floor. Stubbs keeps his head down, which has the annoying side effect of sweeping his hair over his forehead. From the angle, Stubbs’ lashes are long, and Logan wants to touch his hair, his face, anything.

“Go ahead and say it,” Logan mumbles. “I”m a fucking mess.”

“You’re a fucking mess,” Stubbs echoes without hesitation. He lifts his head with new anger. Mouth pulled back in a tight frown, eyes bright, jaw clenched. “But I can’t get involved, no matter how big of a mess you are. I can never get involved. It isn’t fair.”

“Right, I forgot.” Logan waves a nonchalant hand. “My shit’s above your ‘access’ or whatever-”

“ _Yes._ ” Stubbs’ eyes have enough pent up aggravation in them to hurt. The look makes Logan uncomfortable, has him squirming on the couch. “I’m not supposed to get involved. You don’t want me involved anyway, or I didn’t think you did. But then you call me, and you tell me I owe you, and I don’t get it. I don’t know what this means. I know Westworld, but this stuff? I’m not made like you, Logan. I don’t understand.”

It’s a lot to unpack, but Logan hasn’t exactly been in the right mindset for unpeeling layers lately. He goes for the low-hanging fruit. “Don’t think you’ve called me by my first name before.” Logan’s smile manages a softer touch.

Stubbs still looks mad, but his shoulders slump. The tension in his jaw relaxes, and the glint in his eyes turns resigned.

He rises from the floor and heads back into the kitchen too fast for Logan to get a proper look at his ass. When Stubbs returns, it’s with a glass of water that he sets on the plastic coffee table next to the bouquet of lilies. “Get some rest,” Stubbs says, and when he straightens up, Logan realizes he means to leave.

Stubbs starts for the door, and panic has Logan lurching off the couch after his retreating back. He gets a handful of Stubbs’ shoulder. Stubbs is as sturdy now as he was years ago, hard as a Louvre sculpture.

Logan spins Stubbs around, and Stubbs must get an attack out of the motion. He’s on Logan fast, forcing him against one of the blank white walls. Logan’s back cracks off the cheap plaster, and he finds his arms pinned above his head. Stubbs’ angry breaths hit Logan's neck. Logan is breathing fast too, very aware of how much thicker Stubbs is than him. Especially now, so much weight loss later, skin and bones against Stubbs’ ox body.

It’s like a light switch goes off. Stubbs’ eyes flick upward, shifting to where he’s pinned Logan’s arms to the wall. He looks down too, at his body holding Logan’s in place. “Shit.” Stubbs pulls his hands back abruptly. “Mr. Delos, I’m so sorry-”

Logan grabs Stubbs’ hands before he can withdraw and kisses Stubbs with all the force he can muster. It's worth the wait. Yeah, Stubbs is clumsy, mouth popping open in surprise. But it’s a good mouth - plump and soft. A few moments pass before Stubbs responds. He’s hesitant at first, but all it takes is a little extra bite to get more interest. Stubbs’ hands relax inside Logan’s. Thumbs slide up Logan’s wrists, and Logan groans his approval into Stubbs mouth. He’s more than happy to relax when Stubbs shows more initiative, his lips slacking in permission. Stubbs’ body is so heavy on top, Logan shifts against him with interest.

“Don’t say you’re sorry again,” Logan murmurs against him. “And it’s ‘Logan’ from now on. No last name, no ‘mister.’ Logan. That’s it.”

“I can do that,” Stubbs breathes. It’s like he’s seeing a whole new world too, one that’s full of splendor.

Logan slides his hands out from under Stubbs’ and cups his face. His skin feels warm. Shaved smooth and real. Alive. Which doesn’t mean jack, of course. Logan’s known for years that feeling something doesn’t make it real.

Or maybe feeling is the only thing that matters, real or not. At least Logan hasn’t lost the ability to feel yet. He’s all the way to the bottom, but his feet haven’t quite touched the ground.

“I think you should stay,” Logan says. When Stubbs starts to open his mouth, Logan continues. “I don’t care what you’re supposed to do or what your access is. I think you should stay. Are you going to or not?”

Stubbs slides a slow look over Logan’s face.

After a moment, he nods. “I...think I should stay too. So I will.” It sounds like a big decision. Like it means more than an afternoon in a shitty apartment with a guy cut off from his family's fortune.

“Good,” Logan says, and he caps the sentiment with a kiss. He can’t even remember the last time he called something ‘good.’ If Logan is lucky, this will be the start of a trend.

“Good,” Stubbs agrees. When he exhales, he actually smiles. His eyes warm, he looks _happy_ for once, and something honest and awful flips over in Logan’s stomach.

“You,” Logan says before he realizes he’s even talking, “need to smile more.” He rubs a thumb over Stubbs’ lips, marvels at the upward tilt of them under his touch.

“I can do that,” Stubbs says, the words vibrating under Logan’s thumb. “As long as I get something back. You’re a smart guy, bet you can think of a good trade.”

Logan sputters out a laugh. “That’s blackmail,” he points out. “And also, fuck yeah I can.” He lets his arms slide around Stubbs’ waist. Stubbs steps into him, warm and heavy. If he feels the way Logan’s hands are shaking against his back, he doesn’t say a word.

Stubbs isn’t letting go either, mouth sliding through Logan’s beard. The rasp of contact makes Logan gasp and one million possibilities jump into his head. All good for once. All pointing up instead of down.

***

“It’s time, Logan. You should come home.”

Logan takes a moment to ingest the words, mulls them over in his mind like a flavor he’s tasting for the first time. He laughs, short with surprise. “You’re not serious.”

James Delos, his dad - same guy who's never has a sentimental word for anybody - gives Logan’s shoulder an approving pat. “You look good,” he says. His hand lingers for a squeeze, testing the build under Logan’s suit jacket. Seeing for himself that it’s more than Logan’s face that’s cleaned up. He’s put weight on, it’s not all a mirage.

Or maybe this is the closest dear old dad can get to saying he was wrong. He should have let Logan come home all those years ago. He never should have let Logan leave in the first place.

Logan smiles, because it’s funny. In the not-too-distant past, he would have done anything to have pops look at him like he is now. Like Logan is a man worthy of staring in the eye. Like he’s a man James Delos himself can be proud of. “Thanks, but no chance in hell,” Logan says. He plucks his father’s working-fingers off his brand new Armani.

The event is one of those try-too-hard farces with a piano and candlelight out of a gothic romance novel. Pretty people chat with other pretty people, giggles tinkling like bells. Servers murmur with caution under the crowd noise. “Another glass, miss?” “Hors d’oeuvre, sir?”

It’s a silly show, and Logan enjoys it tremendously. Back in this community with fresh eyes, he can take the artform for what it is. It’s easy to have fun with a performance when you know it isn’t real.

James sputters at the answer. “I’m offering you the chance to be where you belong,” he hisses.

“Come on, pops, I thought you’d be proud of me for making my own way. I learned that from you. You always wanted me to be my own man. That’s why you taught me the hard way, isn’t it?”

“I _am_ proud of you,” James says - five words Logan never thought he would hear in his lifetime. His face always turns reddish-purple when he gets mad. Kind of like a fresh punch in the face. The color can't mean anything good for dad’s long term health. But hey, he’s got his son-in-law director of procurement to help him out. He’s got Juliet too, and Emily’s getting older.

Logan is kidding himself. He’ll be devastated when the stubborn bastard decides to kick the bucket. But Logan still isn’t crawling back. Even when the flattery continues. “You cleaned yourself up. Started your own company. Climbed right back to the top. I’m proud of you, Logan. We’re all proud of you. And our two ventures together could-”

“Ah, you’re wanting a buyout!” Logan laughs, hands twitching at his sides. They’ve been without a drink for way too long. “I mean, I’ll talk, but it’ll be a pretty penny. We’ve got forecasted investments that could have us rivaling Delos within the next 10 years. Helps when you’ve got a staff with an eye for the next big thing, huh?”

James doesn’t like the suggestion at all, oh no. His face takes on a nice cabernet color. “Your job is waiting for you, Logan-”

“Did William sign off on that?” Logan asks blithely.

It honestly startles him when his old man stays silent. Not even one of his dad's trademark <i>fuck you’s</i>. William has him by the balls, doesn’t he? Neutered by his own son-in-law. Funny how life works.

“Don’t you turn your back on me,” James warns - only, Logan’s back is already to him. He’s looking for a drink, and finds one conveniently attached to the person he was hoping to run into.

“Line at the bar was a mess,” Stubbs says. He has a glass of champagne in one hand and a bottle of some cheap-ass beer in the other. “So, did I miss anything-”

Logan grabs two fists full of that familiar black suit jacket and pulls him in. Stubbs sucks down a surprised breath, but he doesn’t pull back even when a few sets of bemused eyes turn towards them.

“ _Logan_!” His name hisses out like a snake behind them.

“Oh, right,” Stubbs mumbles against Logan’s lips. “Your dad.”

“Mmhm,” Logan confirms.

Stubbs gets it, shocked tension bleeding out from under Logan’s hands. It’s never gotten old to feel his muscles go soft and pliant. He tucks arms around Logan’s waist, drinks balanced against the small of Logan’s back. Logan smiles and backs them up, one long stride after another, until they find a corner for some privacy.

The performance may be done, but Logan lets himself stay in it for a few minutes longer. Kissing Stubbs has a way of relaxing him like a hammock sprawl.

Logan pushes Stubbs’ stupid boy scout haircut off his forehead. He loves how Stubbs’ mouth pouts out after he’s given a proper kissing. And the soft shine to his lips that he adds to by licking Logan’s flavor from them.

“So,” Stubbs says, handing Logan the champagne, “your dad hates me now.”

“Good,” Logan answers, clanking his new glass against Stubbs’ beer. “Means you’re a keeper.” He grins.

Stubbs snorts behind whatever swill he’s drinking, something mass-produced and frat-friendly no doubt. “He offer you a job?” he asks.

“Yup.” Logan lets the answer sink in, bubbles tickling his tongue. He drums fingers against the side of the glass. “Didn’t take it,” he says. “Guess I’m happy where I’m at.”

Stubbs nods. “I don’t blame you. Where you are now, you can be free.” Means a lot coming from Stubbs. He would know better than anyone.

When Stubbs’ big hand makes a mess of Logan’s hair, Logan wonders if he sees the grays starting to sprout. Silver lines streaking along the sides. Soon enough, Logan’s vanity will take over. He’ll dye his hair back to its natural shade, and no one will be the wiser. Except Stubbs, who hones in on him like he can see every detail. Every single salt and pepper line. The start of the slightest cracks next to Logan’s eyes.

Stubbs looks exactly the same as when Logan first met him years ago. Same baby face aged only by crease lines framing his mouth. Not a single gray in his floppy blonde mop. Arms like a weightlifter. Abs on point. Logan knows why, of course, and he guesses he should be jealous. It’s got to be nice to live without worrying about chips and fractures along the way.

But after all Logan’s seen, all he’s done and had done to him? He’d like to think he’s earned a few gray hairs.

“How about you?” Logan asks. “Do you ever want to be free?”

Stubbs' eyes rev over Logan like a motor shifting into high gear. With another lick of his lips, he takes Logan’s free hand and eases it into his jacket pocket.

“Hey, you want me copping a feel, you should pick a lower pocket,” Logan teases. But he finds what Stubbs wants him to easily, something smooth and round, about the size of a golf ball.

He pulls it out. It’s small and gray. Logan knows what it is immediately. “You-”

“Take it,” Stubbs says. He folds Logan’s fingers around it.

Logan frowns, but he has no intention of giving it back. He cups it like the most expensive jewel in existence. “Ford know you have this?” he asks.

“Of course.”

Logan’s brows shoot up. “Does he know you're giving it to me?"

Stubbs nods again. “He knows everything. You know that.”

Logan knows that all the way to his bones. Most nights, he tries not to think about what it means. Sometimes, it keeps him awake until the early hours.

It’s a risk falling for anyone. There’s always a chance they could get in a car crash the next day, or choke on a chicken wing, or all kinds of crazy stuff. But thoughts of total system resets always put Logan on edge.

He places the object in his own pocket. “I’ll need more from you to make it work.” He smiles to cover his unease. “You’ll have to give me that data, big boy.”

“Not the ‘D’ you were asking for last night,” Stubbs says.

Totally unexpected, and Logan laughs out loud. “You’re learning from me,” he accuses. “I like it. It’s hot on you.” He takes another gulp of champagne and seals it with a kiss. Without two drinks to hold, Stubbs’ bear hand can bridge over Logan’s spine. He’s warm on Logan and real enough. “Might ask for that again later if you don’t mind.”

Stubbs rolls his eyes, but the gesture doesn’t mean no. With a chuckle, he nods back towards the crowd. “You’re missing your gladhanding.”

“Am I?” Logan wonders. His innocent blink is harder to buy with a handful of Stubbs’ ass. Stubbs grunts, flashing him an annoyed looked, but his body juts forward. Logan starts thinking that bastard William was right all those years ago. Gladhanding is overrated. Right now, Logan has way better things to do with his palms.

Still, networking is part of the entrepreneurial gig. Logan downs the rest of his glass. “Alright.” He shakes the finger-mussing from his hair and straightens up his suit. “Duty calls,” he says. “Another glass?”

“We’ll see,” Stubbs says, smiling. With a swig off his beer he ambles out into the crowd.

Logan watches him go; watches the way his pants hug his thighs, more like it. His teeth scrape his bottom lip. “Yeah, guess we will,” he mumbles.

He fingers the host consciousness in his pocket. Rolls its smooth surface between his fingers, thinks about how valuable it is. Not just to tech innovation and market competition, but to him.

Logan takes a deep breath and schools his face into something pleasant and removed. It’s showtime, and he’s too far from the bottom to look anywhere but up. Logan strolls out from the alcove with his perfect business mask. But his lips still feel warm and soft when he smiles.


End file.
